Being alone in a new apartment leads to terrible contemplation. It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon and I still haven’t left the bed. To top it off, it’s Sunday. I’m supposed to be in Onehunga, attending the Worship Service, but I chose to sulk in bed. In fact, I have chosen to sulk in bed for the last four weeks, or to be completely honest, I would have chosen to sulk in bed for the last twelve years.
So here I am again, posting another blog on the Internet to pour out all my random thoughts at the moment. A friend told me that blogging begs for attention. He said that it’s just a way of explaining yourself to others, or a way of justifying yourself to the world. What sucks though is that nobody would care less about what you are trying to say. Then again, blogging for me is not like that at all. It is my way of rationalizing all the mixed-up emotions to myself, and not to everybody else. There’s nothing more pitiful than not even understanding what you were feeling.
I create drama online because it’s my way of escape, and not to mention the long shelf-life of online-written-pieces—I could always go back to them whenever I wanted to, retracing everything. Written diaries are bulky and mushy nowadays. Worse, they can be tossed around from hand to hand and be laughed upon by heartless creatures who didn’t even understand what you were feeling at the moment. Blogs are more handy, and were only read by some fellow bloggers who perfectly understood what it feels like to be typing in one’s sorrows one letter at a time.
At this very instance, I felt the huge need to blog. You see, today is a Sunday, and Sundays remind me of too many things that I’ve once had and deliberately lost. Sundays remind me of twelve-long-years of pretention. Sundays remind me of who I desperately wanted to be. Sundays, for all they’re worth, remind me of a life that I once enjoyed and breathtakingly turned my back on.
I was ten years old when I was first introduced to Christianity. Pastor Jess Marasigan and his family were the first ones who have guided me to the right path. With them, I learned how to play the flute. With them, I have sung my first song. With them, I have attended my first Church Camp. With them, I have felt that I have a family other than my own. Jam, their eldest, became my best friend. It was exciting at first—the new experience, the awesome, noble things that I get to do, the feeling of going through the road of Worship at such a young age. However, I entered highschool. I was a teenager, and teenagers were practically expected to do rubbish things.
My world was divided. During Sundays, I was the “prim and proper” girl whom I was expected to be. For the rest of the week, I was the not-so-prim-and-proper-one. I tried hard to take the “church thing” seriously though. My crowd then were swimming in a mayhem of curiosity, and I grasped hard on my so-called-salvation in order not to drown in with them soon enough. At twelve, I’ve had a pregnant classmate. I saw them got drunk. I’ve witnessed foreplays in some classmate’s living room. I’ve heard them exchange vulgar words through conference calls. And there I was, as I have mentioned…just a witness—a part of the audience. I never cursed until I was fifteen. I was twenty when I really got drunk for the first time. I smoked two, effin’ cigarette sticks in my life. I never saw a porn movie until I was twenty-one. I’ve had my first kiss when I was sixteen, and I’m still a full-pledged-virgin until now. Though some older people may still find this improper, in my generation, most of my friends then would refer to me as a late-bloomer. All my life, I was exposed to what’s real and to what most people refused to look upon. That’s why all my life I was torn between being who I wanted to be and who I’m supposed to be.
After two years of going to Pastor Marasigan’s church, my family decided to transfer to another one—Lighthouse Baptist Church. Right there, worse pretentions ensued. I was forced to incline with the church’s description of a perfect Christian girl. I must wear long skirts, and definitely avoid wearing pants or shorts. I must have long, black hair—no streaks of highlights or improper haircuts whatsoever. Bible must be on one hand, or in the bag, irregardless of where you will be going. I couldn’t listen to secular music. I have to sing and listen to worship songs all the time. My drawing skills are not allowed to be used for “worldly” purposes. At fourteen, I’ve led Sunday Schools and Art Ministry. I was a Soprano in the Church Choir. I couldn’t date, or at least they couldn’t know that I was dating, especially guys who were not “saved”. I’m forbidden to lead a wild, normal life. I’m forbidden to be me.
Another two years and we transferred to a new church yet again—Cabanatuan Christian Church. I’ve spent six devastating years at that place. In CCC, my Christian life got all mixed up. I fell in love with somebody there. He was perfect. He wanted to be a pastor. During the first time that I heard him say it at one of the church camps that we attended, I felt my heart skip a few beats. He wanted to be a pastor. He loves God that much. Having him in my life, I felt obliged to do the same. I became the non-biological mother of the young people in the church. I tried to transform myself to fit into the image of a “pastor’s wife”, because in my head, if he was “God’s will”, then I have to keep up with his heart’s desire for the rest of my life. For three years, we prayed together faithfully, and then just like that…I let him go. After he was gone, I felt my world collapse. I felt lost. I felt like all the years that I’ve spent in the church were only because of him—because he was there, serving the Lord, that’s why I stayed. After I lost him, I lost everything else as well.
After him, I realized that my whole Christian life was a lie. My worship depended heavily on other people, and though I have known, heard and seen what a good Christian must be like, I still felt confused. After him, I turned my back on the church and tried to find my own path. If people in the church would persuade me to come to church or do something, I would automatically decline. I swore that there would be no forcing anymore. I swore that I will never go back because of some random guy that I met in the church. I swore that if I’ll ever serve again, I’ll be there because I wanted to. I don’t want to be the excited ten-year-old girl who enjoys going to church because of the new things or the new people—never again. I swore that I’ll be there because my heart led me back.
However, there were instances when I feel bad because people just don’t seem to understand. They make me feel like I’m not there because I thought that it’s just a waste of time, but it’s not that at all. I’m just scared of making the same mistakes again. I’m just scared of living another lie. I’m scared of faking another relationship with the One who mattered most. I’m scared of altering myself again just to fit into somebody else’s description of what a Christian should be like.
It’s not that I don’t want to stand up for the commitment that I made with God twelve years ago. It just that…this time, I wanted to serve the Lord in my own way, and not in the way that other people would approve of.
